


We Danced Together Alone

by madasthesea



Series: Somebody Loved [2]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: 5 Times, F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-07
Updated: 2015-03-07
Packaged: 2018-03-16 17:54:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3497468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madasthesea/pseuds/madasthesea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>5 times Jemma Simmons and Leo Fitz danced.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Danced Together Alone

**Author's Note:**

> A sort of continuation of my fic You Turn Me Into Somebody Loved. Title from Somebody Loved by The Weepies.

 

i. 

They had been dragged, quite literally, to the Boiler Room. Everything, from the lights to the drinks, was a garish shade of red or pink. Fitz groaned. It wasn’t that he disliked Valentine’s Day. It’s just that he didn’t like crowded bars with cheesy love songs playing over the speakers and nauseating couples slow dancing half an inch apart. Even worse than the couples however, were the single people, like himself, who were hanging precariously between drunk enough to not care and sober enough to wish they didn’t.

Fitz couldn’t decide if he was lucky to have Jemma to share his corner booth with, or not. He appreciated her company, and her determination to not let the holiday make things awkward between them. But every time someone passed, they would look at them—at beautiful, brilliant Jemma, and at him, slumped in his seat with his curls in disarray—sitting together in their dimly lit corner with their hideously pink beers, and wonder what she was doing with him.

Just as Fitz was deciding if it would be rude to make up an excuse and flee for his dorm room, Jemma broke into his thoughts by saying

“Let’s dance.” Fitz choked on his beer. She was looking at him, her eyes wide and honest.

“Umm…” He muttered, his cheeks burning. “Are you sure? I mean…”

“Come on, Fitz. Let’s dance,” she said, tugging on his arm until he abandoned his room temperature beer and followed her to the dance floor.

There was an awkward moment where he moved to put both arms on her waist, while she raised one hand for his, then they both switched. They settled, with slightly nervous laughs, on closed position. They both did their best to ignore the stares. They danced, a little awkwardly, until the song ended. Then they dropped their hands, smiled, made their way back to their corner, and pretended it had never happened.

(His roommates tease him for weeks after and he almost regrets agreeing to it. Almost.)

 

 

 ii.

The Academy hosts an annual ball for those graduating. Fitz tried to plaster on a smile when Jemma told him about it. But he pulled on his rented tux the night of and walked into the ballroom with Jemma on his arm, looking radiant in her dark blue gown. They picked a table in the back, ate the provided dinner, and listened to a short speech, before the rest of the people at their table moved to the ballroom floor.  

A man in his mid-twenties settled at their table, introduced himself as Michael as he cast a haughty glance at Fitz and his slightly crooked bowtie, and engaged Jemma in conversation. Fitz just scowled at him and slumped in his chair, doodling designs on a scrap of paper from his pocket and tried to pretend he wasn’t listening. The conversation progressed from the dissertation of Jemma’s second doctorate degree to her personal life alarmingly quickly.

Fitz snapped his head up, anger flaring hot in his chest, when Michael asked if she’d “gotten the full college experience, despite her age.” Before Jemma, who was bright red and looked like she might cry, could stutter out some sort of answer, Fitz was out of his chair. He very much wanted to punch Michael in the nose, but restrained himself. Instead, he held his hand out to Jemma and asked “Would you like to dance?”

She took is hand immediately, not even bothering to say goodbye to a rather surprised looking Michael, and let him pull her to the farthest side of the dance floor. They settled into position, the knuckles of his hand white as he held onto hers.

“Are you alright?” he asked, taking a step forward as she fell back, the string quartet behind them playing a gentle, slow waltz.

“Oh, I’m fine,” she answered, scoffing a bit. “I should have figured he was only talking to me for… lecherous purposes.” Fitz didn’t know what to say to that, so he said nothing, just pressed his hand more firmly against her back and led her through the steps. He muttered an apology as he stepped on her foot and she just shook her head and looked up at him.

“What would I do without you?” She asked, smiling a little bit. He hoped the rather dim lighting hid his blush.

“Put up with a lot more creepy men, apparently.” She laughed, throwing her head back and he took that opportunity to spin her, a smile lighting up his own face.

They danced through three more songs before leaving, and Jemma pressed a quick kiss to his cheek when he dropped her off at her door.

(The next time it happens, Fitz does punch the guy. The black eye he sports for a week is completely worth it.)

 

 

iii.

Their new apartment is a two bedroom, one bathroom, fifth floor walkup, and it feels like a mansion compared to the dorm rooms they’re used to. They have no furniture, half a set of mismatched dishes, and a library’s worth of books between the two of them, but Jemma practically skipped up all five flights of stairs. Fitz balanced a box of books and his case of power tools in one arm as he unlocked the door with their brand new key, swinging it open to let Jemma go first. She shuffled past, arms full of pillows and blankets, looking around her as if in awe.

They brought up several boxes of things Fitz deemed necessities before sitting on the counter of their empty kitchen. The teapot, the first thing they had unpacked, sat cooling on the stove top as they each sipped at a mug, music playing softly from Fitz’s phone. Jemma put down her mug first, looking out into the empty living room. Then she jumped down and held her hand out to Fitz.

He stared at her uncomprehending for a long moment. Jemma rolled her eyes, took the mug from his hands, and pulled him off the counter.

“What are you doing, Jemma?” He asked, a little miffed she didn’t let him finish his tea.

“I have always wanted to dance in an empty room,” she said simply.

“Dance?” He said, hesitantly. She just nodded, dragging to the center of the floor. He stood there, arms at his side, looking at her with a blank expression.

“Oh, come one, Fitz,” she practically begged, purposely making her eyes big and sad looking. He scoffed, looked away and rubbed the back of his neck. Then he looked at her, gave her a little sideways smile, and held out his hand. She grinned back, and put her hand in his.

He twirled her around, and when she faced him again she was laughing. He wrapped his arm around her waist and led her through a series of made up, uncoordinated steps. The Smiths were playing from his phone on the counter, the city lights were visible from their windows, and Jemma’s laughter was echoing in the empty apartment.

Fitz wasn’t good at this. He wasn’t good at silly and playful. He wasn’t good at talking to people or getting the proper amount of sleep or controlling his temper or dancing just for the fun of it. But Simmons’ made him want to try. So he spun her around and tried not to step on her toes and sang along with the music until they were both out of breath and the battery on his phone had died.   

They both slide down the wall, kicking their feet out in front of them, laughter still echoing in the empty flat.

“Thanks, Fitz,” Jemma said. She laid her head on his shoulder.

(When they leave for the last time, Fitz looks over his shoulder and pictures what they must have looked like. He smiles before locking the door.)

 

 

 iv.

Simmons had been pale and quiet for the last three days. Every time her gaze fell on the cargo bay doors, she would take a deep breath, then would look down determinedly at her work, trying to hide her shaking hands. Fitz didn’t think she knew that he had noticed. It was why he was watching her and why his hand slipped when putting down a screwdriver. It fell to the floor, clanging loudly, and Jemma jumped, looking around to him wildly, her eyes wide and alarmed.

“Sorry,” he said quickly. “I wasn’t paying attention.” She nodded and turned away, but he could see her shaking from the other side of the lab, could practically hear her ragged breaths. “Jemma…”

“What, Fitz?” She said and her voice was tight and controlled and it made him think back four days, to that terrible moment as she reminded him that no one had survived the virus. That she was going to die. He put down his tools. “What, Fitz?” she asked again when he didn’t answer.

He walked over to her, waited till she raised her watering eyes to look at him. Then he gently took her hand and pulled her out of the lab and into the cargo bay.

“Fitz,” she began, trying to pull her hand back.

“Shh, Simmons, just… trust me,” he said turning to face her. He looked at her, watched the way her gaze flitted to the bay doors before making and holding eye contact with him. She nodded, just a little, and that was all the agreement he needed to raise their joined hands and pull her to him.

He wrapped his arm around her waist, holding her closer than he usually would. She put her hand on his shoulder automatically, but still seemed reluctant to follow his lead.

“What are you doing, Fitz?” she asked tiredly as he began to shuffle his feet, turning them in a slow circle. He didn’t answer for a moment, just kept his arm around her like a lifeline.

“I am giving you a new memory,” he replied quietly. She took in a shuddering breath and rested her forehead against his collarbone. He stopped moving his feet, tightened his grip around her hand, and let her tremble her way back to sanity in his arms.

(He notices that she never flinches looking at that metal door again.)

 

 

v.

“Why were we picked for this mission, again?” Fitz asked, staring dubiously at Coulson.

“Because Skye’s on crutches, Ward is concussed, and May has a history with the host,” Coulson rallied of for the third time. Fitz just continued trying to do up his cufflink.

“Don’t worry, Fitz, I’ll be on coms the whole time!” Skye said enthusiastically, poking his foot with the end of her crutch. He was about to say something along the lines of “that makes it even worse” when Jemma walked in, her emerald green dress sweeping behind her, and Fitz sort of lost his train of thought.

“Yes, and we’re both grateful,” Jemma said to Skye as she pushed Fitz’s hands out of the way, doing up both his cufflinks before beginning to adjust his tie.

“Simmons, stop fussing,” he said and she backed away, looking contrite.

May drove them to a large mansion in a sleek black car. She was also their backup if anything went wrong. It didn’t make Fitz feel any less nervous.

“Get the door for Simmons,” was her farewell when she stopped the car. He muttered back a slightly huffy “I know” before scrambling out and hurrying around to the other door for Jemma. He escorted her in, her hand nestled in his elbow, and he felt a bit ridiculous, and a more than a bit self-conscious when dozens of eyes turned towards them. He noticed several men looking Simmons up and down in appreciation, and grit his teeth.

They meandered for a while, talking casually with a few people. Well, Jemma did most of the talking, Skye feeding lines into her ear. Fitz spent his night glaring down anyone who seemed keen in asking his partner to dance. After forty minutes of appearing as simply casual guests, they slipped away to get the drive. It was a simple task, the security of the building preoccupied with all the guests in the ballroom.

They returned to the crowded hall, and were slowly making their way towards the door when Skye spoke on their coms. “What are you doing? You can’t leave yet! It’ll look too suspicious.”

“Then what are we supposed to do?” Jemma hissed back, conscious of the people near her.

“I don’t know,” she replied, sarcasm thick in her voice, “maybe dance?”

Fitz and Simmons exchanged glances. Simmons shrugged. Fitz rubbed the back of his neck.

“Umm… ok,” he said holding out his hand. “Oh, I mean, would you like to dance?” She smiled, a little awkwardly, and took his hand,  carefully avoiding the few pairs of eyes that followed them as they moved to the dance floor. 

They’d danced together before. They’d even dance somewhat well before. But now, with security guards posted on every door and people speaking into their ears and a memory stick in Fitz’s breast pocket, it was all sweaty hands and eyes darting nervously around the room. Fitz was fairly certain they were off-beat the whole time.

“Sorry,” Fitz muttered after stepping on her foot again. Her toes were red. Simmons gave him a pained smile and then tightened her grip on his shoulder when her ankle wobbled in her heels.

They both sighed audibly in relief when the song ended and Skye finally told them they could leave. Fitz escorted Simmons out with her hand clutching too tight to his elbow and clambered into the back of the car after opening the door for her.

Jemma kicked off her shoes as soon as May had pulled away from the mansion, tipping her head back against the seat as Coulson spoke in their ears. Fitz suddenly wished they’d danced a little longer.

“Sorry I stepped on your toes so much, Jemma.” He said quietly, hoping no one else registered it on the coms. She looked at him and smiled beatifically.

“You can make it up to me by being a pillow for the ride,” she yawned, sliding closer and dropping her head onto his shoulder. He tried to hide his smile from May’s eyes, watching them in the mirror.

(He doesn’t remember falling asleep, but he doubts he will ever forget waking up with Jemma’s warmth at his side.)


End file.
